Zachster

Remember all that stuff I sait about swastikas? It’s all true, and I do take it to heart. But It’s still very satisfying to sit on a giant pile of swastika bricks and smash them to pieces with a hammer. Shattered bricks line the bottom of the septic tank pit, so we spent a solid hour smashing a few hundred bricks. With the right focus, directed in the right spot, one good hit can split the brick into just the right sized pieces. The rest of the day was spent hauling bricks and rocks from one location to another.

First we started carrying them by hand (eight per trip is my comfort zone), but later borrowed a rickshaw to load up a hundred at a time and wheel them over to where the masons needed them. There’s been a natural progression from the base labor where we started to using tools and mechanics to make our work easier. My body had gotten used to the strain, and now that it’s lessened, so has my interest. I’m sure I would have bored of the digging by now also, but I find myself seeking out the more strenuous tasks on site. The brick shards need to be further smashed and leveled once laid in the pit. We do this with a weighted compactor mounted at the bottom of thick bamboo stick. You lift it a few feet off the ground, and then slam it down onto the shards. It’s exhausting and creates blisters almost immediately.

Every day at lunch, we feast on three or four dishes prepared by a local woman who has started her own catering company. These are consistently our best meals in Delhi, centered around lentils and rice, and then a few (sometimes exotic) vegetable dishes. The saag paneer was the best I’ve had, and there was a carrot stew that was amazing. The carrots here are bright red-orange and taste a bit like sugar beets. The food at the hotel, which is included in our rate is similar, but not quite as good. Breakfast especially is repetitive, but we have our own supply of local fruit to distract us. Twice now we’ve gone to local Indian restaurants to see what else is out there. I’m invariably drawn to the same lentils and rice I have every meal. Each time it’s different, but always delicious.

Before dinner tonight we stopped by a shop for musical instruments. They sell pianos and guitars, violins and violas. But their main item is the sitar; big ones, little ones, and eensy baby ones. They range from $150 to $1000 dollars, but are all beautiful and works of art unto themselves. We asked to hear one and the proprietor went out to the street and pulled in and old man. He played a slow and sollomn song, and sang at times, but only with the do-ray-me-fas of the scale as lyrics. Katrina bought one of the less expensive ones for her brother the musician, and got a massive case that to keep it safe on her travels. I’d love to have one, but the strings are tiny and dig into my fingers, and the rhythm is so far beyond me, I am left behind uncomprehending.

Our last stop of the night was at the chemists, where with the right research you can find some interesting pharmaceuticals available without a prescription. The last time I was here, I rediscovered ambien. This time I got recommendations for some muscle relaxants that nicely take the edge off my aches and pains. As with most things here, medicine is priced for the market and I got a few dozen pills for five dollars. I’m not sure if this pricing is evidence of our victimization at the hands of the drug companies, or evidence of India’s violation of intellectual property laws. Either way, it suggests the world is out of balance. This is the overall theme of any trip like this, where us with so much work side by side with them with so little.

We’ve now passed the halfway mark for workdays on our project. The walls of our house are slowly coming up. Members of our team are slowly dropping down. This one has a stomach illness, that one a flu. One left to return to her sick father. One smashed a finger hauling bricks. I’m getting what I came for in that my enthusiasm for the place is wearing down. Visiting the same site, along the same roads, every day breeds familiarity. Likewise, the slum children are adjusting to our presence, following us with less frequency, more captivated by their games and conflicts than our comings and goings. I feel less like a tourist, and more like an immigrant.

Out on a limb here, thinking the best way to start any day is by watching a herd (tribe?) of monkeys stampeed by your window. There’s this drained swimming pool in back of the hotel, bordered on two sides by tall trees. It looked as if the baboons were descending from the treas, crossing the pool deck, on their way into the city. Sixty million years of evolution. Right before my eyes. If this is a daily occurance, I’ll get some photos tomorrow. I will start from the window outside my room, and work my way closer as my fears allow. If I go all Goodhall and run off with the tribe, give my comic books to Nate.

Now let’s talk about swastikas. The symbol is one of the earliest known to mankind, dating back to 5000 BC, with it’s origins tied to that of the cross symbol. It’s theorized that any basket weaving society would discover the symbol within their craft. The natural progression of a woven basket results in a swastika pattern as the bottom center of the basket radiates outward. The swastika has been an important symbol in Hinduism since at least 300 AD. Facing right it represents evolution; facing left involution. It’s four arms pointing in all four cardinal directions give the symbol a representation of stability. The symbol is ubiquitous within Hindu temples. The blue elephant god Ganesh is often depicted sitting on a lotus flower on a bed of swastikas.

More recently it has been used by western Europeans for other purposes.

I explain all of this so that when I say I spent the entire day hauling bricks, each with the imprint of a swastika, and that I found the work fulfilling, you will understand the context. The irony is not lost on me that I went from digging trenches on the frontlines of poverty, to assembly-line service surrounded by that symbol. Am I a prisinor of war? If I am, my enemy is not the people for whom I work. Most likely it’s western guilt, but maybe it’s also the whole damn system that gives me what I have and these other people, nothing.

All in, I estimate I moved 300 bricks. If you’re ever given the choice between moving bricks and digging ditches, go with the bricks. There’s a clear rythem to it of pick-up and drop-off, with some time to walk, and some time to rest built in. Digging is incessant, unending.I realize I’m obscessed with quantifying my efforts. I would like to be the sort who works with a detatched mind, against no measurements. I get a glimpse of that through my own ignorance of the process. I have no idea how many more bricks I will move today. Our supervisor says ‘more’ and I move more. He tells me ‘deeper’, and I dig deeper. I make little deals with myself that I will take just ten more steps, but when those are behind me, I have to make a new deal. But I still keep vague count of my totals. I stack them up and devide them by the pain in my body. For every five bricks I move, my muscles ache this-much. This is not news to me. I keep track of things. I look deeper. I don’t let things go. Nirvana, the abandonment of self, is not in my future. But that’s alright. I’m doing okay in this world. I’ll leave the next to the brahmans.

After work today, most everyone else went out to the Bollywood film Paa. It was supposed to be an eastern version of Benjamin Button, but in India that means the little boy had Progeria. So I skipped that and caught up on some photo uploads. I also bought a belt so my pants would stop falling down. It’s funny how things like that become incredibly inconvenient when one is hauling bricks. Finding a US to India power adaptor was a bit more complicated. You cannot walk through the center of town without attracting the attention of local men, looking to assist foreigners however they can. I’m still not clear on how this whole system works, but it makes me very uncomfortable. I started out fine, asking a few men to leave me alone. I put in my headphones to feign deafness. But after being directed from one shop to another, none having what I needed, I let myself be guided by an older man who spoke formal English and talked about his brother in Colorado. He took me to a shop that looked promising, but still turned up nothing. He told me they would have one in five minutes, brought down from a shop a few streets over. In the meantime, we should go to his shop of Kashmiri handicrafts. I’ve heard such amazing things about Kashmir, a region like Israel that is forever in dispute because of its beauty and long history. I’ve also heard of tourists paying for tours to the region and finding themselves kidnapped having to buy their own freedom. So while I was nervous about it, I followed him down an alley and upstairs to his shop. It was a cramped and winding staircase with display cases lining the walls exhibiting handmade boxes and notepads. The narrow hallway opened into a small room packed with scarves, carpets and jewelry. It was all quite lovely, but I had no confidence the jewelry was worth the price they were asking. There’s no way of knowing, I suppose. I ended up buying a twenty dollar cashmere scarf. Or was it a Kashmir scarf? That barely matters as it was bought out of obligation, so I don’t mind if I overpaid. It also sets off my eyes nicely. I was able to leave without much sleeve pulling, which gave me a good feeling about my guide. But returning to the electronics shop, they had nothing for me. This began a mile long trek from shop to shop looking for my adaptor. We finally ended up in an underground market built off the metro tunnels. This was very similar to Saigon Plaza in Los Angeles, with vendor stalls packed tight together, and tighter with cheap merchandise. The second shop we visited had what I was looking for. I bought two. I thanked my guide and let him take me to one more carpet shop in which he had a stake before heading home. On the way, I asked him if I should feel safe in Delhi. I told him how other men had approached me offering hashish, and that made me feel in danger. He agreed it was dangerous, but then asked me if I would like some. I think maybe this is the whole point of the thing. These men, young and old befriend tourists and lead them to hash dens. I don’t know what happens there, but I’m not willing to go so far outside public view as to find out. I’ll pet a cobra any day over that. The next time I am approached with offers of help, I will try my luck at telling them right off the bat that I’m not interested in hash. If that’s the magic opt-out, I’ll consider myself well prepared to wander the city a bit more.

I’m a bit ashamed to say that on my way home, I stopped at the Park Hotel. It’s a five-star with gourmet restaurant and full service spa facilities. I got a discount group rate for the rest of my team, but couldn’t resist a sixty minute Balinese massage to end my day. There is a pleasure to the complete abandon with which I’ve approached my work, and the pain I feel is constant reminder of this. Submitting to this kind of pampering takes much of that pleasure away, but I can live with that. Holding onto my pain is its own form of selfishness, and I was more than happy to give that up; yielding it to oil and pressure. I walked back to my hotel, leaving behind the lush splendor of The Park, taking a bit home with me in my loosened muscles.

Today was easier in a way. We knew where to go, and we knew what to do. It’s hard being in a new place, but as we get more familiar, we can focus more on our project goals. That easing enables more hours of more efficient back-breaking labor. If yesterday was our introduction to digging, today was our perfection of dirt management. It’s not just about how you move it, but also where. All in, we had to move about 240 cubic feet of dirt. I wont say that I moved more than my fair share, but I held my own. I figure that’s about 1000 pounds of dirt. I can’t tell if that sounds like a lot, but I can say it took me a solid eight hours of strenuous work to break it up and move. By the end of the day, the mason started laying the base of bricks and raising the rebar columns that will support the front wall of the house. About this time, the home-owner lit some incense, and offered up some sweet treats to the gods by tossing them at the base of each column. The smell alone dramatically changed the tone of setting. It took a smelly worksite, filled with sweaty armatures, and turned it into the scene of home being raised.

Our ride back to the hotel was interrupted by a flat tire. The driver and his helper did an impressive job of swapping the dud out for a dusty spare they pulled from the belly of the bus. He laid a white cloth on the ground, covering some significant mud, and made sure to lay square across it, working the jack flat on his back. The whole operation took about fifteen minutes, which was enough time to walk down the street to a small Hindu temple. It was a fairly industrial building, but with a marble floored courtyard in the center. I removed my shoes and explored a bit. There was a bell with some colorful streamers tied to the clapper. I asked the proprietor if I should ring it, but he gestured me to an alcove at the back of the temple. My fingers had been up near the streamers and pushed them gently as I walked away. A few dozen flies swarmed from the bell and dispersed. The alcove contained the temple’s main altar. I sat for a few moments at the mat beneath the diorama of some Hindu god whose figure seemed dark and nondescript. I don’t pray, so I sat there taking it all in. I’m open to being caught up in the spirit of a place, but that wasn’t going to happen here. I got up to leave and put 100rp in the donation box (about $2). The proprietor handed me an orange hued sweet sitting on a paper wrapper. This was the same type of sweet offered to the house by our home-owner. One of the other teams had been given them to try, but took our supervisor’s advice and abstained from gift food. One guy gave his to a goat, another gave hers to a little boy. The boy liked it more than the goat. I’m pretty adventurous in what I’ll try, but Delhi is a dirty city, and even if the sweet was prepared with care, it likely sat among the flies for a time.

The rides home seem infinitely longer than those to the work site. Every bump in every road sends waves of discomfort through our tired bodies. The cacophony of horns from tuktuks darting around us sound more scolding after such a hard day’s work. We start the ride on a high from our exertion, eager to go out at night and explore the city. But two hours later, fatigue has set in; muscles have hardened; turned to stone. Still, after a few hours of milling about, we gather as a group and walk over to the ‘American Themed’ restaurant, Rodeo. The Indian staff is dressed in black country garb, complete with chaps and holsters, neckerchiefs and cowboy hats. I find it ironic, this eastern version of cowboys and Indians. I wonder if they know the villains wear black. The space is surprisingly authentic, with heavy black iron hinges on all the doors, including the swinging saloon doors to the rest room. The food is Mexican, all prepared with the Indian supplies at hand. My shrimp were bathed in a chilly sauce so tangy and pungent it made my eyes burn just smelling it.

Every night, I stay up a bit later, and sleep a bit longer. My body is adapting to its position on the planet; adapting to the strain I subject it to. I miss the time I’d spend awake in the early morning, the world still dark and quiet.

Digging is hard. I can only do it for about seven minutes with intensity. After that, I have to rest and catch my breath. Maybe for two minutes. Digging was my world over the four and a half hours we were at our work site. The location is a vacant lot agancent to an existing brick house. We were supposed to tear down a thatch shack and replace it with a brick building, but there was some problem with the home-owner’s participation in the project. So we trekked over to another location, through streets of mud and sewage, between throngs of children practicing their Hi’s and Bye’s. I can’t quite wrap my head around what I saw. It’s less heartbreaking than the children begging for money in the street. But these might be the same children. Maybe when I come to them it changes the relationship. I’m no longer a traveler to be propositioned for handouts. I am hired help, digging ditches and moving dirt.

The neighborhood is an ecclectic mix of concrete bunkers, one and two story brick buildings, wooden storefronts, and thatched huts. Families are in and out of all of these: working in the street, playing games, walking goats. Chickens trot around under the ambivalent stares of roosters. Their calls ring out now and then, again and again telling me to wake up.

Again and again I scrape dirt, clay, and trash from our growing trenches. Burried bricks offer a break where I can drop to my knees and dig with my hands. I was not prepared for this. I could use better gloves, and better boots. There must be better shovels. Why hasn’t someone made this easier? Why am I here? Why do I keep going? I slam the shovel into the clay and kick it deeper with my boot. I push down to pull up as much clay as possible. I think about the six hours a day I sit behind a computer screen. I think about the ways I fall short, and how laziness has plagued my life. It’s not so hard to keep going. It only hurts.

Every hour and a half, we walk back to the community center for a break and a snack. It’s a ten minute walk through a less chaotic part of the slum. A good portion of the walk is along a paved road separating us from a wide expanse of open land. Giant powerlines loom off in the faded distance. The children play in the street that no cars drive. They run out a few meters into the open land for games and hunts. It’s mostly women and children here, a reverse of the city where young men mill about and seem drawn to me; eager to help in hopes of some compensation. The children busy themselves with games of all sorts: badmitton with ping pong paddles, rollerblading in skates twice too big with flipflops for wrist gaurds. Jump-rope. For every two playing, there are four more watching, subverting. Then one or two orbiting at a distance. Maybe a 2 year old wearning no pants.

The men who are around, those not working stands selling small prepackaged junk food, seem of a different type than their neighbors. Their clothes are clean and their hair is brushed. Some ride the alleys on japanese motobikes, honking at every cross street just like the tuktuks saying, “Here I am, watch yourself”. While the children smile through oddly straigh teeth shining a brilliant white, these men do not. They don’t quite frown. They don’t pay much attention at all. My imagination sees in their faces a bitter disappointment. Fifteen years ago, these were children chasing after foreigners, laughing and shouting because someone new had come and things were going to change.

Let me be clear, I do not feel like a savior. Seeing us, no one could make that mistake. We’re a bunch of westerners come into the slums to dig ditches. Many of these people are day laborers and know how ditches should be dug. I can’t be sure what they think, but they stand and watch. They pull up chairs. At the very least we’re entertainment. The ditches I dig are uneven. The bricks I will lay will be crooked. I cannot impress them with the quality of my work. So I dig harder and show them at least I will entertain.

Let me start by saying that cobras are terrifying. I have no idea how often they actually bite people. Or maybe they just spit poison into our eyes or something. Either way, I feel no shame in posting these pictures where I’m clearly uncomfortable. When I handed back the cobra, one of the indian onlookers asked me if I’d been drinking. I wonder what he meant by that.

Holding the cobra was the emotional highlight of my first day here in Delhi, but it was a tight race between that, petting an elephant and shaking hands with a monkey. If I’d ridden a tiger, I could head back to the US completely satisfied (not to mention die having lead a full and productive life). The elephant felt amazing. Like an incredibly old shoe. The monkey’s hand felt like sandpaper.

I should say that I’m not a fan of animal servitude. It’s abomination. But it also exposes people to animals they’d never see otherwise, which fosters an appreciation and hopefully inspires us to support conversation. For my part, I give enough to World Wildlife Fund to appease my guilt.

Speaking of WWF, here’s our last tuktuk driver of the day who wanted to talk about american wrestling. I wish my uncle Bill was there. Except then we never would have fit in the tuktuk. They only sit three and there were four of us. That meant that I, apparently the most adventurous (no one else held the cobra) sat up front with the driver. Or rather, half sat, half held onto the roof and leaned back everytime a car passed us too close.

Getting around was pretty easy. Tuktuks are pletiful and don’t get bogged down in traffic. The most stressful part is from being unfamiliar with the people and customs. It’s hard to tell those being helpful from those trying to sell you hashish. Some people do both.

I like to fly. I can’t remember if it’s always been this way, but the memories I have from childhood are pretty good. Sleeping down on the floor of the bulkhead, down by my parents feet. Magic marker books where secrets appear under the ink of a special pen. Trick peanut brittle, filled with spring snakes at our layover in Puerto Rico.

Then in school, flying on my own, back and forth between Los Angeles and New York. Taking the redeye on my way back home, alone in the dark I’d stay up all night. It was a time to reflect on my new life building out west, and prepare for a return to place of my childhood. Prepare for again sleeping under my parents’ roof. I want to make some joke about manifest destiny in reverse. The return flight back to LA was less interesting. Timezones shrink the trip to half its size. Downhill versus uphill.

But this is something different. A cross-country jaunt and a fourteen hour flight compare about the same as do your daily commute and route 66 from end to end. Nothing comes as close as this to opening my eyes to the true nature of the world. Maybe low orbit would be better, but until then this is all I got. As we race towards the sunrise, then straight through to sunset, like a mad dash through hard rain trying not to get wet, I take in enough to see it for the sphere it is. I see the continents roll beneath me and imagine the planet’s spin; imagine our airborn fight against it; imagine the whole deal hurtling through space around that sun doing something similar. Yeah. I like to fly.

I watched Gandhi on the plane (along with about ten other hours of quality, on-demand programming). It should be good preparation for my travels, but I suspect it’s a bit more broad than that. Very little of it has to do with Indian culture. If anything, it makes a statement on how change can only come from those not too tightly bound to the past. Bound just enough to fit in, but not so much as to get stuck. This week’s New Yorker tells a similar story about some new Muslim mayor-type in Amsterdam embracing the gay community. Leading pride parades, going against the cultural norms of his people. I think Gandhi would have been all up in that action too. But the film still sets a nice tone, and paves a nice path for my trip. Flying into the country at six hundred miles an hour, witnessing its modern history in a few blinks of an eye.

I’ll try to stay awake through the rest of the flight, but I don’t think I’ll make it. I feel my dreams stalking me from two rows back. Darkness creeping out from the overhead bins. But it’s okay. A few hours of awkward sleep shouldn’t disrupt my schedule too much. I’ll get to the hotel exhausted, with a full day gone since I left the US. I’ll get to the hotel in a daze and wake up fresh in a new world.

These last days were full of vacation activities. Grandma and I took a cooking class at a ranch out in the country. It was touch and go for a bit, but things came out deliciously in the end. We took a daytrip to a nearby city with more of the same: colonial architecture; traditional pottery; churches on every corner. It’s amazing how even relaxing becomes routine.

We finished up last night with a great meal and an evening in the central plaza. We stopped for a bit and watched a folk band entertain a crowd of locals. They were charming and talented. The star was a boy who looked bored out of his mind. They were all in costume, mimicking something whose original I’ve never seen. On the band leaders it looked kitsch, on him it looked like a punishment. He looked so sullen playing his tambourine; I thought he might be working off a community service debt. But when his solo came and he took to the center, he exploded into dance: hands and feet striking out and magically finding the tambourine waiting. Still his face was ashen. Note: plaza performers make money by selling small cups of wine to patrons for $2.

I’m at the airport waiting for a quick hop to Mexico City, then on in one straight shot back to Los Angeles. I think of all that raw land rolling… all those people dreaming in the immensity of it… or something. Did you know that Neal Cassidy died in San Miguel? It’s unclear whether he was hit by a train, drunk and stoned on the tracks, or expired from excess nearby. He’s an enigma to me. He was a constant fixture in the writings of Jack Kerouac; a setting sun in Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test; but he barely wrote a word. He finished a rough autobiography a few days before he met that last train. There aren’t many male muses these days, I guess.

I do believe in a world defined by opposites, and if it takes the constant work, the daily grind, to so thoroughly appreciate time away, then it’s a price fairly paid. I’m not quite trued up yet. I will need to venture out again sometime soon. So where to next? An idealized spot from childhood? The remote wilderness? Decadence by a pool? I suspect I won’t be bringing Grandma, but I can’t imagine this trip without her. Being so far from home, yet able to tap into a well of history tying me to my family, my blood, helped the rest of the world fall away, leaving behind a thick mixture of the distant past and the coming future. Family is Family. Peoples is Peoples.

At my life drawing class yesterday, I met a girl who grew up on Nantucket. This girl, about my age, moved to San Miguel earlier in the year to pursue her art. Her family moved to Nantucket in 1989. Her brother is still there. I remember vacationing there as early as 1985. It’s almost certain we swam in the same ocean, ate the same ice cream, and yearned for the same toys; on the same day; within a few feet, amongst a few hundred other children.

Spending this time with my grandmother is largely about connecting with the past; checking my notes. My own seems distant enough. I feel like it’s a mystery novel that if I’d only paid attention to in the first few chapters, I’d know now how it has to end. But adding in all the clues of her life, and the lives of family just outside my frame, it’s an epic so sprawling I need an HBO miniseries to sort it all out. I know it’s all too complex. The narrative we overlay is just one of many possibilities by which we make sense of our lives. But still I feel each new story is a clue to who I am and where I’m going.

Tonight I heard about my grandfather’s proposal. It was minimal. Grandma still calls herself a war bride. He was shipping out and said he wanted to be with her for the rest of his life. The cynic in me scoffs at his possible pessimism, but the romantic knows all about the life they shared and the love they inspire.

I heard about my Grandmother’s drive for something more. She’s a brilliant girl grown up in the sprawling metropolis that was Omaha Nebraska in the 20s and 30s, resigned to live with the man she loved in Grand Island. She said her life’s biggest regret was not going to college. But I have to think that drive to know, to learn, inspired her four sons to venture out on their own and conquer such worlds as they have.

This morning we went back to the gallery for our painting classes. I continued with one of my sketches from our drawing workshop. Grandma parked her easel by the balcony and started in on the Perroquia church across the plaza. She’s very brave. Painting is fun. There’s trial and error; victory and defeat. The woman teaching us owns the gallery and keeps it stocked with a plethora of her own work. They’re large format oil canvases depicting herself in various romantic situations (and stages of undress). Her theme of giant reflecting orbs makes it clear that I have much to learn from her.

Sitting in the plaza after dinner, hypnotized by the night-lit Perroquia, I spotted Hanna, our model. Grandma asked how I recognized her with her clothes on. She promised to come by the gallery on Friday as we finish up. I hope she won’t be too horrified by my rendition of her. She was walking hand in hand with a lanky Mexican boy two heads taller than her. He did not come over while we spoke. I find girls who pose alluring. Not while in the act (I’m too busy), but after. I would never have a problem with my girl choosing such a hobby. But I would certainly chaperone any interaction she had with clients outside the office. At least if I thought she was smiling at them the way Hanna smiled at me.

Tomorrow it’s on to cooking classes

It was a lot of work, but I believe we conquered all the crappy Mexico shopping for this trip. I’m glad we got it out of the way, and are now free to focus on more important endeavors. We started out yesterday with the Covered Mercado. It used to be open-air, but that left vendors exposed to RIAA and MPAA satellites. Under the security of the finest warehouse technology available to central Mexico, a free market has flourished. There must be some master wholesale planner who travels from city to city, designing modern-day bazaars. Take a look at Saigon Plaza in Chinatown, LA if you have any question what I’m talking about.

This morning, in our incessant search for authenticity, we cabbed it out to the traveling Mercado, the Tiengas. To get an accurate picture of this cultural phenomenon, I recommend the Palm Springs or Orange County swap meets. If these are not easily accessible, please consult Google for your nearest swap meet. Okay. I confess. I’ve never seen live chickens an American swap meet. Even baby turtles tend to keep a low profile across the border. But whatever points this wins Mexico in this game, they forfeit for having feeder bunnies. I call foul! (see Flickr for proof).

With the mindless consumerism out of the way, I’m now free to focus on the main purpose of this trip. No, not escaping my existential rut. Despite what my previous writings might suggest, the real point of all this is to spend time with my Grandmother. I’m here to pickup any stories I’ve missed along the years. I’m here to measure myself up against the life she’s led. I’m here to bond. And let me tell you: there is no greater bonding experience than live sketching of a nude 20 y.o. dreadlocked nymph. None. Beat that. I dare you.

Okay. I’m mostly kidding. Both Grandma and I have worked with live models. We were completely mature about it. There were a few times Grandma broke down in a fit of giggles, mumbling “booobies”, but she’s only human. I kid. The experience was almost completely humbling. In my former life I studied to be an animator and took months of life drawing workshops. It’s amazing how quickly technique falls away when it’s not backed by genuine talent. Only in the last few poses and after my last few margaritas did I shake free even a bit of muscle memory.

Tomorrow we move onto painting.

After class, we hustled over to the Tiatro Santa Ana for a guitar concert we found in the paper. During the day, San Miguel gives off the impression of being terribly crowded. The narrow sidewalks push everyone into the street, which slows the cars way down, giving the impression of traffic. The cobblestone roads and blind corners exacerbate the effect. But once inside, be it a store, a restaurant, or a theater just off the town center, we have the place all to ourselves. Every time. All to ourselves. This concert must have been well publicized since there were two other people waiting when we arrived. It really was a fine performance. Diego was a talented guitarist and a strong singer. So what if he looked like Agent Smith playing Elrond in Lord of the Rings? And so what if he was backed up by a midi drum machine? His fingers moved nimbly across the strings. I’ve not enjoyed Latin music so much since I bought that Santana CD at Amoeba. I must, however, take issue with his understanding of what it means to be a concert performer. It does not mean you invite the woman in the audience with a guitar up on stage to perform. I don’t care if she makes up 25% of said audience. I know for a fact that at least 50% of the audience did not come to hear a 40 y.o. Canadian singer/songwriter berate the B.C. provincial government for their sale of water rights to foreign investors. Oh Elrond. Is this what it takes to increase turnout to your performances? For shame.

Twice as I drifted off to sleep I was pulled back by the sound of thunder rolling across the Mexican countryside. Those kinds of false starts prime me for dreams rich in chaos and symbolism. It’s all a jumble now, but I have after images of porcupines and a lot of running. Don’t judge me. I awoke this morning to the sound of church bells. For some reason I think such dramatic sounds are a nice way to wrap my sleepy time.

My room is rather sprawling and I enjoyed getting ready this morning. Between the bedroom and bath, there’s a narrow hallway lined on both sides by floor-to-ceiling linen curtains (windows behind one side, closets the other). Walking down the corridor, the curtains billow, letting in the morning sun and adding momentum to my actions. After an ample shower, and an ample breakfast, Grandma and I were off to the town square to catch a house and garden tour. Don’t judge me.

San Miguel is littered with expatriates. The Instituto was founded to attract international artists to the city, and when it got accredited, veterans since Korea used the GI Bill to study here. Many stayed. The result is that the tourists and the locals are all about the same age and difficult to separate. At this stage in my life, I’m curious about their motivation to drop out, and what repercussions they’ve suffered. I tried various tricks to get honest answers, but they’re tough to crack. Or they’re genuinely happy.

The houses on the tour are pretty spectacular. Lining the narrow cobblestone streets, offset by only a foot or two of sidewalk, sheer stone walls hide the rich and verdant courtyards around which the homes are built. Heavy wooden doors serve as portals into another world. At first the impression is that the streets are uniform and ordinary, diversity added only by the bright pastels separating one property from the next. But after seeing a few of the treasures hidden behind a few of the walls, I’m left fantasizing about what’s beyond the walls I did not cross. The ubiquity of their obscurity lets the imagination run wild.
With the cheap labor, these ancient haciendas have been renovated in complex and modern ways. Houses jump from room to room, and floor to floor: Escher-like. Grand trees dominate courtyards, passing through carefully placed holes in the walls, continuing on out the roof so as not to interrupt their destiny. It’s difficult to imagine what inspired such grand design. The tourist trade is fierce and many houses are for rent or sale. It’s possible I was on a real-estate junket specializing in the soft sell. Or maybe with little else to do, the locals spend their time crafting San Miguel into this paradise of stucco and iron?

After a tasty afternoon buffet where the margaritas flowed and the flan quivered, Grandma and I retired back to Casa Luna. The power of the siesta is strong. Who was I to resist? When I woke, I took up my new book out in the sun. Born Standing Up, Steve Martin’s memoir centered on his stand up comedy career has been on my list for a while. I picked it up at the airport, forgetting I like to read novels centered in the regions I travel. But I’m glad I did. The book covers Martin’s inner conflict at obtaining such success that it dominated his life and cast him to a world of routine. His escape was moving on to write, and star in multi-million dollar films. I think that’s sound advice for us all.

Tomorrow I will move on to Gabriel Garcia Marquez.